The somewhat ufanista groover “Banana” which can also double as a shopping list. This song (and Clareana as well) dates back to earlier sessions she had done with Maurício Maestro that also featured Naná Vasconcelos

It is Easter Monday and that is as good a reason as any for F.Vibes to revive a little. I suppose if you were to compare Joyce (né Joyce Moreno) to anyone in the Anglo-American musical universe, it might be Joni Mitchell. Both are phenomenal songwriters and instrumentalists in a male-dominated field where women are often confined to the roles of vocalist and/or window dressing. Both of them are also quite beautiful women who declined to use their sensuality to sell records. How that may or may not relate to their career paths, which often perched between cult status and superstar, is something I will leave others to ponder. While there is no doubt that Joyce has done quite well for herself, she probably has more name recognition outside her home country, particularly in Europe and Japan where she is something of an ambassador for Brazilian musical sophistication and the style called “hard bossa” that she plays. In Brazil she may be best known for the big hit off this album, Clareana. It was written for her children and ebullient with the nearly manic joys of motherhood, a song that impresses by its loveliness at first but may become a sticking point on later listens. By which I mean your audio player of choice may seem like it’s been dunked in sticky honey or molasses for that 2 minutes and 50 seconds while you wait for the album to move on to more nutritious fare. The album also features a song that would become one of Elis Regina’s last hits in her truncated life, “Essa Mulher”, which (it almost goes without saying ) is performed here by Joyce with less of the wild-eyed intensity that Elis gave to it. Feminina is a milestone in Joyce’s career and has top-notch performances from everyone involved (especially her future husband, Tutti Moreno), and exquisite arrangements from Maurício Maestro. But it also stays in pretty safe territory, exhibiting little of the experimentalism of some of her earlier work. I suppose this is what some critics would then call a more “mature sound,” whatever that means. It is certainly top-shelf MPB in an era when many of the big names of that genre were in a bit of a slump, and has gobs of the excitement and energy of youth that had been bled from some of her contemporaries

I’ve been slacking with posting here on this blog lately, and since this album has been on the “to do list” for years, I’m not quite satisfied with my little summary above. Not that I ever consider these posts to be the final word about anything, but I figure I will feature this interesting take on Feminina found on another blog, which I am including here with full attribution, and without correcting their typos or errors in the Portuguese. Here it goes:

In 1980, Brazil still held some semblance of a military government. Public life was, in some ways free, although one could be sure that the eyes and ears of Big Brother were always near. Strong notions of machismo prevented women from assuming positions of societal power or influence. And the carioca singer, Joyce Silveira Palhano de Jesus released Feminina. The album’s creation was no act of innocence. Joyce’s music had been censored amid Brazil’s tense political situation through out the 1970’s; forcing her to record offshore in Italy and New York. Feminina initially met a similar reception, through its confrontation with political and social authoritarianism, even though the album stabbed at the eye of repression in Brazil without uttering a syllable of contempt. In fact there’s no rancor to be found in her words at all. Rather, Joyce used a far more cunning confrontational device: celebration.

Feminina, with its infusion of samba and jazz into a palate of jubilant traditional folk, celebrates being a woman; as well as being Brazilian. It’s an ode to the souls and the intellect hidden away by failed governments and their over zealous censorship. The quick, merry acoustic guitar of the opening title song warms us to Joyce’s cause. There is the sweetest plea in her voice as she asks “O mao/Me explica/Me ensina/Me diz/O que e feminine (Oh mother/Explain to me/Teach me/Tell me/What is a woman).” All the while flutes and a Latin rhythm section climb and fall like gulls above the ocean. “Banana” and “Aldeia de ogum” continue in this vain with thrilling cascades of Joyce’s vocals and frenetic strum patterns. The album’s centerpiece, however, is the thoroughly enchanting, “Clareana.” Written as a lullaby for her two daughters, (Clara and Ana) the song wisps and soars with Joyce’s idiosyncratic gentleness. It’s easy to imagine Joyce sitting at the side of her daughter’s bed, lightly stroking her hairs telling her, “No sol de manha/Novelo de la/No ventre de mae/Bate o coracao de Clara, Ana (The morning sun/A ball of yarn/In the mother’s womb/It beats like the heart of Clara, Ana).”

Upon the release of Feminina, Joyce was already an accomplished musician, playing in bands since the mid 1970’s and having performed with such stars as Gal Costa and Vinicius de Moaes. To say that she adopted elements of jazz, bossa, samba, and blues into her bare acoustic melodies would be a gross miscue. Instead, she bore these styles into something new. For this reason Feminina, as well as many of her other albums retain a fresh identity; undergoing a perpetual evolution and never aspiring to record anything static and crystalline. In 1985, the moribund military government of Brazil was voted out of power. Democracy returned and Brazilian’s could be left again to collectively determine the course of their country. As a rich culture heritage re-emerged to the world so did the carioca singer, Joyce.

“In the early hours of this Wednesday (8th of February), singer and composer Orlandivo passed away at 79 years old. Family members made the announcement, but did not communicate any further details, such as cause of death or the locations where the wake and burial of the artist would occur. Author of more than 200 songs, for enthusiasts of his work Orlandivo had interpreters of such caliber as Jorge Ben Jor, Dóris Monteiro, Wilson Simonal, Claudette Soares, João Donato, Elza Soares, and Ângela Maria. Among these several hundred songs, full of swing and irreverence, are classics like Tamanco no Samba, Bolinha de Sabão, Samba Toff, Onde Anda o Meu Amor, Vô Batê Pá Tu, and Palladium. In spite of such a strong resumé of hits, and for being considered by the bohemian carioca crowd as the King of Sambalanço – a highly successfully musical sub-genre of the 1960s with roots in bossa nova, jazz, and Latin rhythms – Orlandivo remained practically unknown by the great majority of the country. A Catarinense native of Itajaí, after a brief period in São Paulo, he went to live with family in Rio de Janeiro at 9 years of age. At 6, he had contact with this first musical instrument, a harmonica given to him by his father, who traveled the country and Europe on ships in the Merchant Marines – according to him, his uncommon name must have come from this, probably a corruption of Orlandini, seen when his father would make frequent voyages to Italy. A great inspiration as a vocalist for Jorge Ben Jor at the beginning of his career, Orlandivo made it big in the period 1961/62, a time when he reigned absolute as the crooner of the group led by organist Ed Lincoln. In 1962, he released his first LP, A Chave do Sucesso, on the Musicdisc label, a title that made an allusion to one of the composer’s characteristics, the use of a key-ring as a percussive instrument. In 2013, the cult-favorite self-titled album released by Orlandivo in 1977, with arrangements and collaborations with João Donato, was one of the 50 albums highlighted in the column Quintessência.

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After a few years only producing albums, Orlandivo changed his path. After all, who else in the country could make the “sound of Divo.” He is back at it again, younger than when he was mere lad, more experienced, knowing much more about things, with that certain sauce and that swing that helped to create his style. Orlandivo sings simply and easily, so simple that it seems easy to sing, so easy that it motivates us to also try. But woe to whoever tries to imitate him. No, my brother! Orlandivo is Orlandivo , personal, particular, non-transferable, alive, malandro, sly, so in tune he’s uncool, rascal doing his own thing. I don’t know if the locksmith is still in business, but I guarantee that the one in his hand is the key to success. That’s it! It was good luck for those people who, during this time, lived depending on his songs. Now, I don’t know! He’s making them himself, singing them himself. Better for you, getting you back fresh as a daisy, this really cool guy who sings as well as we think we sing when we’re in the shower. Thank you, Divo, for coming back with your good vibes. We were needing you.

20.11.76 Chico Anísio

A lot had happened in Brazilian music between the last time Orlandivo fronted a group back with Ed Lincoln, and this tremendous collaboration with João Donato, who blessed it with his Midas touch that was on quite a golden streak at the time. All the musical movements between those years seem to be celebrated here with an easy joy, sounding contemporary (both then and now), but with no real concern with genres or trends, searching – as he might put it – for the Brazilian sound anywhere he finds it. The overwhelming theme here, at least for me, seems to be texture – and that is no small measure the work of João Donato. Donato coaxes smooth and amicable aural shapes out of components that tend to have rough edges. The keyboards are softer, the Farfisa tone on Tamanco No Samba sounds like a few resistors were removed to make the sustain sputter out a little early. Sometimes when listening to this, my memories go back to the times I had to eat steak with a spork in the sanitarium, because we were not allowed to have any knives for safety concerns. It was awkward at first, but ultimately some of the best steak I’d ever eaten. From shout-outs to Jorge Ben and Gilberto Gil (the ‘Bengil’ of the second track) to the groovy accordion of Sivuca on Gueri Gueri, everything here has a very digestible flow to it. Another chance to point out Donato’s arranging genius is his instinct to resist the obvious – he uses Sivuca on the aforementioned Gueri Gueri, but not on the actual forró song here, Juazeiro, where you might expect him to be trotted out. The album injects some of his classic hits in between new material, with many great contributions from his main writing partner Durval Ferreira. Yes, Orlandivo does sort of sing “like nobody’s listening”, like we all do in the shower, or like when I am trying to impersonate João Gilberto and failing. The record ends on an appropriately dreamy reading of the classic bossa nova anthem Felicidade. I remember thinking to myself, “Why?”, the first time I heard it. But the answer is more than a simple “why not?”. It’s an appropriately subtle conclusion to what is an understated capstone in the discography of one of first great musical masters to leave us in 2017.

If I had to invent a singer, she would (naturally) need to have a very beautiful voice. After this, I would train her enough to sing well, learning the secrets of phrasing, division, breathing, projection, naturalness, these things that you learn in school.

Later, I would say to her that all of this was not enough. A singer is not a musical instrument. She is a person, a human being, and it is fundamental that this is made clear when she sings. The emotions, sadness, joy, depression, anguish – all this that popular music suggests has to be transmitted when it’s time to sing. So much depends on her so that the music is not shorn of its sensations when it’s communicated.

Finally, I would tell her to sing things that come from the people. The songs made by the geniuses of the people, full of talent and unspoilt by commercial ambitions and the neurosis of novelty so common to composers of the middle class. I would suggest that she serve as a point of entry between popular culture and consumerism, not allowing the goal to jeopardize the origin. She would have to be, therefore, a singer of great talent.

Beth Carvalho saved me the trouble of this work. She already exists.

– Sérgio Cabral

This is a bit of a ‘stop gap’ post because the world should filled with music but I don’t have a lot of time to help with this Divine Mission today. Along with Clara Nunes, Beth was one of the people whose albums first got me into samba when I was just visiting there as a tourist. I think the first album I heard, at a friends house was Nos Botequins da Vida, one of her first efforts for RCA. Shortly after, I was lucky enough to find that album and one of these – Canto Por Um Novo Dia, I think – in my regular stop-and-frisk of the street vendor’s carts in every city I passed through. They are pretty common albums, nothing “rare groove” about ’em, but it’s your loss if you overlook them on that count. I still feel like Beth gets taken for granted by many Brazilian music fans, maybe because her management did not have the strategic foresight to arrange for her to die young. She is still around performing, making the occasional record, but has thus far shown zero interest in surrounding herself with young hipsters in the studio to ‘update’ or reinvent what she does, so has yet to become subjected to any awkward revivals.

On top of their strong repertoire drawing from the best of the many composers available to her, these early albums also have the presence of her mentor Nelson Cavaquinho playing guitar on many tracks. You can hear his distinctive plucking of the strings from behind the sounding board, as well as some occasional backup singing, alongside Dino 7 Cordas. There is also Abel Ferreira on clarinet, Copinha on flute, Wilson das Neves on drums, Paulo Mauro on a couple of arrangements. This last handful is all on on Pra Seu Governo, which is inverted chronologically on this 2-on-1 CD. I’m not sure why they did this, but it probably is the stronger of the two albums in terms of immediately just grabbing hold of you. It has also the best samba marimba ever, on Monarco’s O Fim do Sofrimento… The earlier album Canto Por Um Novo Dia is equally excellent, and features arrangements by César Carmargo Mariano, at the time in the middle of a string of classics for Elis Regina. It opens with the heart-wrenching Hora de chorar, which is a bit less upbeat of an ‘opening number’ than Miragem, perhaps. Beth delivers a great mix of tunes on both albums from composers old and new, and maintains the laid back, roda de samba vibe that I think is one of the things that endeared her so much to Nelson Cavaquinho.

So now, the sound … It is a big step up from the horrific Discobertas boxset (I’ll keep laying into that point until people stop buying them – I’ve never seen a label so worthy of going out of business). But this EMI reissue has still got “issues.” The EQ is relatively neutral, but the source for both albums appears to be vinyl copies. I suspect Tapecar didn’t keep their masters or else preserved them so poorly that they are useless now. So, surely EMI has access to fancier A/D conversion units than I have at my disposal, but unfortunately they also slapped some heavy CEDAR noise reduction on it that sucks all the transient frequencies out. There is audible compression too that you can really hear kicking in at some places, but it’s used judiciously for the most part, adjusted to sound pretty natural and doesn’t distract too much. However, listen to the whole disc with a pair of headphones and I all but guarantee you will have listening fatigue and a headache before you are a couple songs into Canto Por Um Novo Dia. Although my vinyl copies of these are probably less than pristine, they might still warrant a needledrop here sometime for the handful of us who still care about these things.